All These Little Things
by darthsydious
Summary: It's John and Molly's first anniversary. Just fluff. AU John/Molly.


"You look nice," Molly turned to see John leaning against the door of their bedroom. She gave a laugh.

"I'm not even dressed yet, I haven't got my face on yet," she scurried to the hassock in front of the vanity, fixing the strap on her slip.

"You look better than nice, then," he said, coming further into the room. She reached for the rollers in her hair, quickly unpinning them. "Here I'll do that," he offered.

"Oh, right, yes, if you like," she murmured, voice soft. She rather liked it when he helped fix her hair. Or he tried to. He wasn't exactly a stylist, but he helped her pin her hair up sometimes, and generally it meant his hands lingered on the nape of her neck, soft touches over her ears and jaw, she was rather certain they were deliberate (not that she was complaining).

Married a whole year and she couldn't believe that a man as good as John Watson loved someone like her. John Watson was, without a doubt, the very best of men, and Molly never in her life dreamed she'd ever find, let alone marry, someone half as good as him. For the first eight months they dated, she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for something terrible to happen, something to go horribly wrong or for him to realize she wasn't who he must have thought her to be. Her past relationships were never like this. She was the one who was constantly handed the "It's not you, it's me" line, when she just _knew_ it was her. Dating a pathologist apparently was creepy to most men. But John didn't care. Of course, anyone who shared a flat with Sherlock Holmes had to have a taste for, or at least an understanding of, the bizarre and not quite ordinary. After ten months, instead of handing her the usual line that things just wouldn't work out, John proposed to her, and Molly listened to the feeling in her gut, accepting him.

Gently, he slid the bobby-pins from the rollers, while her hands took over, carefully unrolling and separating the rollers and pins.

"When does the cab get here?"

"Not for a while," he said. "You've got time, no rush," he studied her reflection in the mirror, smiling fondly. "I like your hair like this," he removed another curling rod, smoothing her soft hair.

"Half-done?" she laughed then.

"No," he removed another pin. "I mean with the roller things, the curls."

"Oh," she smiled at his reflection in the mirror. "I haven't done it in a while, and tonight's extra special,"

"Is it?" he asked, mock-seriously. It was these small intimate moments that John loved best, the in-between times when they helped eachother get ready. There would come a day when he wouldn't be able to help her unroll her hair or watch her wriggle into her stockings, cursing and swearing at the hosiery. These were the moments he savored in their relationship, the small, unromantic, tucked away times that happened every day. He'd spent so much time taking for granted the little things in relationships; he didn't want to make that mistake with Molly.

Finished with her hair, she took down the jewelry she had planned on wearing.

"Like me to do that?"

"Thanks," he took the string of pearls from her, setting them against her neck, fixing the clasp.

It was the type of domesticity that would have probably driven Sherlock mad. It was the normalcy between cases that John was grateful for. He loved his work; he loved assisting Sherlock on cases. But there were times when he simply wanted to be the bloke who helped his wife dress for dinner, taking down her hair, fixing her necklace, or the clasp on the back of her gown- _"Hello- stop it John, later, cab's in ten minutes."_

"What's that face for?" Molly asked, seeing his expression.  
"You know what," he pressed a kiss to her neck. "But there's no time now, so we'll just save it for later."

"Hm," she smirked, blushing, but pleased John looked at her that way. John was the first man Molly honestly felt lovely around. She wasn't awkward, she felt quite herself, and liked dressing up to make him ogle her. He tended to do that whether she was in a new dress or if she was smearing lotion on her legs with her pyjama pants balled up around her knees. John appreciated the female form, most especially his wife's, and he made certain she knew it, whether she was in her scrubs at work or dressed to the nines.

Tonight was their first anniversary. One whole blissful year of marriage, two years since he decided Molly Hooper was the woman for him. He looked at her on his arm, her eyes sparkling with excitement, her face aglow.

"Where are we going?" she asked, once settled in the cab. She wriggled slightly, the blush satin gown slipping across the seat, twisting around her thighs. Righting her skirt, she gave a relieved sigh.

"It's a surprise," her hand fitted in his, fingers linking. All the way to the restaurant, they talked quietly, laughing over private jokes, over Sherlock commandeering their freezer, and what to do with Mrs. Hudson's flat while she was off in Australia visiting her nephew.

"Let's not worry too much about it," John said, noting the cab had slowed to a stop. He paid the cabby, stepping out and gave his hand to Molly.  
"Well we do have to think about, or else Sherlock will start keeping things that shouldn't be there, we don't want a repeat of what happened while we were on our honeymoon. Cadavers in every bin-"

While she was talking, she'd taken John's arm, heading into the restaurant. The doors were opened for them and John smiled sheepishly as Molly clutched his arm, gasping at the crowd before them all cheering them on, little confetti poppers set off by the guests.

"We never had a reception," John said as Molly tearfully kissed him. "If anyone deserves a party, it's us."

John and Molly had gotten married rather in a hurry, because John's mother was very ill and it was unlikely she'd make the wedding. In the hospital's visitor's room, John and Molly were wed, and while Molly wouldn't change that day for the world, a small, what she would call selfish, part of her still wished for the white wedding and reception.

The Hotel Savoy's ballroom had been rented out, and somehow, Molly didn't know how, Sherlock had very carefully orchestrated the entire thing, flowers, decorations, tables, catering. The attention to detail was staggering, and she wondered how he knew just what to choose. Everyone was in black-tie and cocktail dresses, champagne was being poured. Sherlock was the first to greet them, pressing Molly's cheek.

"How- when did you-" she began.

"Never mind all that," Sherlock said. "Anyway it wasn't _all_ me," he paused. "Mycroft reserved the ballroom, obviously." Mrs. Hudson was pinning a boutonniere onto John's lapel, smiling.

"Happy anniversary," she kissed them both. Molly, still in shock, now holding a glass of champagne (where did that come from?) was still staring wide-eyed at the hall full of people. Breathless, they were passed from person to person, shaking hands and pressing cheeks, teary-eyed and thrilled at the mass of people there. Sherlock stood near the orchestra, tapping his glass with a knife.

"I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen," he called. "We must all sit down, because custom dictates the ridiculous notion of the bride and groom sharing a dance. However I believe we would all agree that a year is far too long to wait."

Blushing furiously, Molly touched the ends of her hair, and then the strap of her gown as John smiled, leading her to the dance floor. In his arms, she felt herself relax, eyes still glancing around the room at the smiling faces as they chatted quietly over the orchestra.

These were the moments Molly savored, in John's arms. Here she was safe, it didn't matter what her hair looked like, what she was wearing or what was said about her. The person who mattered most in the world to her loved her, loved her for who she was and didn't hold her to any ideal but her own, expecting only the unconditional love that he felt for her in return.

Later that evening, shoes by the door, clothes hung haphazardly on the closet door (because hang it all, wasn't it enough he didn't break the zipper helping her undress?) John kissed his wife, rolling onto his back wearily.

"Next year let's go somewhere," Molly said, curling up next to him. "We could go to Madagascar."

"Hmm." John mumbled, smiling at that thought.

"We didn't really get a honeymoon." He cracked an eye open at that.

"I'd rather _not_ have Sherlock plan that one." Molly laughed.

"Afraid he might arrange a murder so that he has to accompany us?"

"I'm just worried he'll accompany us," John chuckled. Molly burst into a fit of giggles as she felt his hands find the ticklish places on her waist. "I'm certainly not going to share you on such an important holiday," he drew her close, kissing her neck. "Do you work tomorrow, madam?"

"Of course not,"

"Good."

Below them, they heard the unmistakable wail of Sherlock's violin, playing a new piece. Molly reached, unlocking the window and cranking it open. Falling into her husband's arms, Molly forgot all else, the violin singing into the night. It wasn't until morning when John checked his messages he found a text from Sherlock waiting for him:

_Happy Anniversary. Also you two make too much noise. -SH_


End file.
